


Four Musketeers and One Unbeatable Team

by libraryv



Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Chains, Games, Gen, Trapped, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Porthos and d'Artagnan are chained in a room as the water level rises and time runs out.
Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1450180
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Four Musketeers and One Unbeatable Team

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile since I wrote a muskie shot of adrenaline, but I think we could all use a quick, reassuring dose of the boys in action to lift our spirits! Once again, the focus is on action, not plot, so sit back, enjoy, and don't think too hard about plot holes. 😆

Darkness. He tried blinking it away, but he couldn’t open his right eye; it felt sticky and hot. He went to touch it, only to realize that his hands were bound tightly at his back, stretched behind the back of the chair he was sitting on. He strained his arms, muscles shaking, as he pulled at the chain at his wrists, but it was useless. Somebody had done a good job.

Memory flared, bright and quick: Porthos fighting at his side, bodily throwing men away from them-

“Porthos.” D’Artagnan kept his voice carefully low. No matter how many times he blinked his good eye, the darkness remained complete; a menacing curtain of blindness.

“’M here, pup.”

“Is it - it’s dark in here, right?”

“Yeah.”

Relief flooded through d’Artagnan. Whatever had happened to his eye, he still had his sight. He shifted his boots, feeling metal around them as well, and noticed a curious suspension of feeling at his feet. 

Water. Maybe a few inches.

“There’s water at my feet?”

“Yep - and more comin’ from somewhere. As long as I’ve been awake.”

“Are _you_ all right?”

“Never better. Haven’ been tied up in a good while, so that's refreshin'. How’s your eye?”

“Fine.”

“I doubt that,” came the reply, and d'Artagnan chuckled into the dark as he tested the bonds at his feet.

“Porthos.”

“Still here.”

“There’s more water in here than a few moments ago. I think this is a trap.”

"Oh, excellent. Haven' been trapped in a bit, either."

A low, mournful groan sounded somewhere from d'Artagnan's right, and another piece of memory fell into place; Aramis falling forward onto his knees as one of Julien’s men clubbed him in the back of his head; sparkling dark eyes going dull. 

"Aramis?"

There was nothing but the ominous sound of quietly rushing water, suddenly obvious. If their brother was conscious, he would have answered. 

He was there, though. 

Where was-

“Athos?” Porthos’ deep voice rumbled out, but there was no answer. D’Artagnan didn’t know whether to be relieved or not: Athos was either alive and somewhere else, or… he expelled a breath, trying not to panic. 

"Damn."

D'Artagnan pulled uselessly at his wrists, and Porthos uttered a noise of frustration. 

"I'm rememberin' I'm not all that fond of chains or traps."

D'Artagnan's shoulders were beginning to burn. 

“There must be a reason your hands and feet are chained."

"They ran outta rope?"

"This isn't just a trap, Porthos. It's a game."

Silence. Then Porthos' voice cut through the dark; a comet blazing with wry humour. 

"Just once, I'd like one of these idiots to try straight-up shootin' us. It would make a nice change."

D'Artagnan laughed, but his mind was busy, thoughts tumbling forward, toppling over each other as he tried to think. 

“Can you feel a padlock, with your fingers?”

A moment filled with the gentle clinking of metal. Then-

“Yeah. I can feel it.”

“I’ve got one, too. If there’s a lock, there’s a key.”

“Sounds promisin’.”

“Where would it be, though…”

D’Artagnan groaned as the realization hit him. 

“Aramis has it.”

“Why would he have…?”

“Because it’s the hardest option.” 

“Sounds like the impossible one.”

D'Artagnan stood warily, knees awkwardly bent, the chair at his back pushing his balance forward. There wasn't yet enough water to cause him to lose his footing. He shuffled over to the corner, fingers outstretched uselessly in the oppressive darkness, straining against the links that bound him. He could sense Aramis’ presence close by, and suddenly, walked into the solid form of his friend. 

“Aramis!”

There was no reply. D’Artagnan turned and bent himself awkwardly back, hands skimming inelegantly along Aramis’ front, clutching at random buttons and leather. 

“Damn!” 

“I take it that’s not excitement over findin’ the key.”

D’Artagnan swore again, and slammed his chair down again. The water was deeper now, he noticed; it sucked greedily somewhere around his ankles. He blew out a frustrated breath. 

“Maybe it’s under his shirt. I can’t move around enough to tell.”

Porthos gave a dark chuckle. 

“Some game. If I were Julien, I’d’ve put the key at Aramis’ feet.”

“Porthos!”  
“Yeah?”

“You’re a genius!”

“Don’ tell Athos, he’ll get jealous.”

An idea was forming, glimmering and vague. D’Artagnan opened his mouth, voicing his thoughts out loud, lending the words determination.

"I'm going to try something."

"Nothing good ever happens when you say that."

"Porthos-"

"Yeah, I know you'll do it anyways. What's the plan, pup?"

"I'm going to tip myself over, so my hands will be close to his feet. I'll feel around for the key and unlock myself.”

“No.”

“I can grasp the lock in my fingers. I can do this.”

“An’ what if the key isn’ at Aramis’ feet?”

“Porthos.” D’Artagnan closed his eyes, tilting his head back. The water was up to the middle of his calf. “Julien could’ve just shot us. You’re right. There was an easy way to kill us, but everything with him is a game. This is just another one.”

“Your face'll be in the water, an’ I can't pull you out."

"I can hold my breath."

A sigh. 

"D'Artagnan-"

But he had already thrown his weight sharply sideways, the chair falling to the ground, d'Artagnan crashing with it. His shoulder took most of the impact, jarring unpleasantly in its socket as he stiffened his neck, saving his head from hitting the floor. 

His head was submerged, and most of his shoulders; just enough water to drown him if he wasn’t quick. 

But he _was_ quick. 

He scooted himself forward, propelling himself with his legs, the chair scraping along the floor. He kept going until his tied hands were groping at the heavy chain around Aramis’ ankles, then his fingers began feeling the loops of metal.

D’Artagnan was still holding his breath as he felt his way along the chain, not even sure what he was looking for. He was sure this was right, but as the seconds passed and the inches of smooth metal betrayed nothing unusual, doubt began creeping in. 

His lungs began to tighten and burn in protest, but he kept going, aware of Porthos’ warbled shouting above the surface of the water, which had definitely become deeper. 

He let out a single bubble of air, hoping to ease the pressure on his lungs, but his legs were beginning to curl up in agony, his body rejecting the lack of oxygen. 

If he was wrong, then this is how he would die, at Aramis’ feet, drowned in a few feet of water because of a stupid guess. 

Red spots burst across his vision, his legs jackknifed away from his chest, trapped by the chain, and he made the crucial error of opening his mouth in a silent, agonized scream, swallowing water-

There! A sharp pain dug into his palm with the realization. 

The key! 

It lifted away from the chain easily, and d’Artagnan poured desperate, precious focus onto twisting into the padlock he could barely hold with his fingertips, his body bucking wildly now, he was screaming underwater as it poured into his open mouth-

He registered the lock giving, unhooking the chain with blind abandon, and with a desperate, primal heave, pushed his loosened hands against the stone floor and dragged himself on all fours, the chair weighing down on his back, the scream loosing raggedly from his lungs as he heaved and coughed. Water spilled from his mouth, his nostrils burning, acid at the back of his throat as more and more water emptied from his lungs. 

“-d’Artagnan! God almighty!” Porthos was swearing freely from the other side of the room. 

D’Artagnan was still hacking, his arms shaking. He almost wanted to collapse back into the water again. 

But the key was still trapped fast underneath his right hand. He gripped it, half-crawling, half-lurching like some kind of strange crab towards Porthos, where he fell forwards onto his brother’s lap. 

“You got the key, you fool,” rumbled Porthos’ voice above him, warm with relief. 

“Yeah,” gasped d’Artagnan, whose right arm was across Porthos’ thighs. It hurt to talk; his throat felt ragged. He threw himself behind Porthos, fumbling with cold hands at the padlock there, and it sprung loose, Porthos laughing before shaking off the chain and swinging his big arms forward. 

“Ha! The game’s not over yet, pup!” 

The water was just below their knees, now; a minute or two more and the chairs would lose their footing on the floor. 

Porthos bent forward, and a few seconds later, stood with a roar of triumph. 

He handed the key to d’Artagnan, who gladly hinged himself at the waist and with a quick twist of his wrist, had loosened his own feet. He pushed himself up, shaking all over, and they both waded blindly around. D’Artagnan had lost all direction; being in the water had turned everything upside down, and the thought of Aramis’ being tipped over into the flood, bound and unconscious... 

“Still can’t see past my nose,” muttered Porthos, and d’Artagnan bumped up against Aramis' shoulder. 

“Here!” he shouted, and reaching a hand down, felt Aramis’ collar. 

“Aramis!” he squeezed gently at his brother’s collarbone. They were shouting now, trying to rouse him over the rush of water. They would just have to unlock him and have Porthos-

Suddenly, Porthos bellowed, “Somebody’s comin!”

D’Artagnan just about heard the heavy footfalls outside, then the crisp bang of a musket shot. The door swung open, Athos jumping to the side as a torrent of water rushed out into the hall, swirling against him and making him curse as he almost got swept away, but held onto the door, and the whirlpool flooded down the length of the corridor, emptying out of the tiny room and diminishing. 

Lit candles flickered in sconces, casting eerie light into the circular room they had been trapped in. Water still flowed steadily from four grates built high into the brick, and Aramis still sat bound to a chair, head lolling to one side. 

Athos raised his eyebrows.  
“Interesting.”

D’Artagnan had run over to Aramis, unlocking the chains at his wrists and feet. 

“The queen’s emerald?” Porthos asked, and Athos patted the side pocket of his leather jacket confidently. 

“How’d you get it?”

“By playing Julien’s game,” replied Athos easily, as d’Artagnan put his arm underneath Aramis, supporting him as he pulled him to his feet. 

“There should be reinforcements waiting at the rendezvous,” stated Athos, walking over to help. “We must hurry.”

“This’ll be faster,” said Porthos, crossing the room in two strides and throwing Aramis over his shoulder. 

“Is he-”

“He’s all right,” said d’Artagnan firmly, and although the words were firm, his voice was still a rasp. Athos gave him a sharp look of concern, but d’Artagnan shook his head. “No time.” 

The words galvanized them, pushing them out of the room and down the hall, the stream of water splashing at their feet. 

*****

“I don’ know whether it was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen ‘im do, or the most foolish,” finished Porthos, reaching forward and tousling d’Artagnan’s hair. D’Artagnan laughed, ducking his head. 

“Both,” said Aramis and Athos at the same time, with affection. Aramis grinned, then grimaced, laying his bandaged head gingerly back down on the pillow. 

His three brothers sat clustered around him; d’Artagnan and Porthos at the foot of his bed, Athos on the one across, swords and weapons belts discarded and strewn on the cover. A fire lit in the corner giving the infirmary a soft, cosy glow, and d’Artagnan scratched his cheek idly, studying the cards in his hand. 

“It was close; Athos arrived just in time. A few more minutes and-” they all looked over at Aramis, whose wink was still as charming as ever, despite the pale cast to his face. 

“I should have been faster,” said Athos, placing one card down and picking another up from the deck. 

“You were plenty quick to get the emerald,” pointed out d’Artagnan. “And Porthos was the one who guessed the key would be hidden at Aramis’ feet.”

“All of you, together,” said Aramis, closing his eyes, weariness etched on his face. 

“All of _us_ , together, you mean,” said Porthos, plucking the five cards splayed loosely in Aramis’ hand, before they could fall to the floor.

Aramis gave a nod, sleep already pulling him under, and the other three looked at each other, smiling. D’Artagnan stretched and sighed, causing him to utter a small cough. He flipped the cold compress on his eye over, so the cooler side rested on the puffy, broken skin. 

“Too close, today.”

Athos rubbed a hand down his jaw, glancing at Aramis. 

“Agreed.”

Porthos leaned back, shuffling the cards. 

“But we beat Julien at his own game, an’ won.” He took a deep breath. “I jus’ worry about the day we lose.”

Athos gave a rueful shrug, but d’Artagnan shook his head. 

“Didn’t you hear what Aramis just said? And you, Porthos?” He smiled, happy and bright. “All of us, together. Unbeatable.”

The two older musketeers looked at each other for a moment, then the corners of Athos’ mouth quirked upwards, and Porthos grinned. 

“Yeah, pup. Unbeatable.”


End file.
